It dawned Wednesday before the Statesman from Tupelo called again at Chamberlin’s to ask for the excellent Jim Britt. The Statesman from Tupelo explained wherefore he was thus laggard.
“I thought,” he said to Chamberlin, “that our friend would need Sunday, Monday and Tuesday to straighten up his head.”
“The man’s gone,” said Chamberlin; “he departed Monday morning.”
“And whither?”
“Home to Last Chance.”
“What did he go home for?”
“That dinner broke him, I guess. It cost about eighteen hundred dollars, and he only had a little over a hundred when the bill was paid.”
The Statesman from Tupelo mused, while clouds of regret began to gather on his brow. His conscience had him by the collar; his conscience was avenging that bankruptcy of Jim Britt.
The Statesman from Tupelo received Jim Britt’s address from the hands of Chamberlin’s clerk. The next day the Statesman from Tupelo wrote Jim Britt a letter. It ran thus:
Chamberlin’s Hotel.